by P. D. James
Sowerby permitted himself a wry smile. He said: “While you were playing Ariel to his Prospero on the beach, I suppose he didn’t confess to killing Robarts. It’s of small importance, but one has a natural curiosity.”
“My brief was to talk to him about Amy Camm, but he did mention the murder. I don’t think he really believes that Amy helped to kill Robarts, but he doesn’t really care whether the two girls did or did not. Are you satisfied yourselves that they did?”
Sowerby said: “We don’t have to be. It’s Rickards who has to be satisfied, and I imagine that he is. Incidentally, have you seen or spoken to him today?”
“He telephoned briefly about midday, principally, I think, to tell me that his wife has come home. For some reason, he thought I’d be interested. As far as the murder is concerned, he seems to be coming round to the view that Camm and Amphlett were in it together.”
Harding said: “And he’s probably right.”
Dalgliesh asked: “On what evidence? And since he’s not allowed to know that one of them at least is a suspected terrorist, where’s the motive?”
Harding said impatiently: “Come off it, Adam, what real evidence does he expect to get? And since when was motive the first consideration? Anyway, they had a motive, at least Camm did. She hated Robarts. There’s one witness at least to a physical fight between them on the Sunday afternoon of the murder. And Camm was fiercely protective of Pascoe and connected to that pressure group he started. That libel action would have ruined him and put PANUP out of business for ever. It’s precarious enough as it is. Camm wanted Robarts dead, and Amphlett killed her. That will be the general belief locally, and Rickards will go along with it. To do him justice, he probably believes it.”
Dalgliesh said: “Camm fiercely protective of Pascoe? Who says so? That’s supposition, not evidence.”
“But he’s got some evidence, hasn’t he? Circumstantial evidence, admittedly, but that’s all he’s likely to get now. Amphlett knew that Robarts went swimming at night; practically everyone at the power station knew that. She concocted a false alibi. Camm had access like anyone else to the jumble room at the Old Rectory. And Pascoe now admits that it could have been nine-fifteen when he got back from Norwich. All right, the timing is tight, but it’s not impossible if Robarts swam earlier than usual. It adds up to a reasonable case. Not one which would have justified arresting them if they were still living, but enough to make it difficult to get a conviction against anyone else.”
Dalgliesh said: “Would Amy Camm have left the child?”
“Why not? He was probably asleep, and if he wasn’t and started yelling, who would hear? You’re not suggesting, Adam, that she was a good mother, for God’s sake? She left him at the end, didn’t she? Permanently, as it happens, although that may not have been intentional. If you ask me, that kid had a pretty low priority with his mother.”
Dalgliesh said: “So you’re postulating a mother who is so outraged by a minor assault on her child that she avenges it with murder, and that same mother leaves him alone in a caravan while she goes sailing with her girlfriend. Wouldn’t Rickards find that difficult to reconcile?”
Sowerby said, with a touch of impatience: “God knows how Rickards reconciles anything. Luckily we’re not required to ask him. Anyway, Adam, we know of a positive motive. Robarts could have suspected Amphlett. After all, she was Acting Administrative Officer. She was intelligent, conscientious—overconscientious, didn’t you say, Mair?”
They all looked towards the silent figure standing against the bookcase. Mair turned to face them. He said quietly: “Yes, she was conscientious. But I doubt whether she was conscientious enough to detect a conspiracy which had eluded me.” He turned back to his contemplation of the books.
There was a moment’s embarrassed silence which was broken by Bill Harding. He said briskly, as if Mair hadn’t spoken: “So who was better placed to smell out a spot of treason? Rickards may have no firm evidence and an inadequate motive, but essentially he’ll probably get it right.”
Dalgliesh got to his feet and walked over to the table. He said: “It would suit you to get the case closed, I see that. But if I were the investigating officer, the file would stay open.”
Sowerby said wryly: “Obviously. Then let us be grateful that you aren’t. But you’ll keep your doubts to yourself, Adam? That doesn’t need saying.”
“Then why say it?”
He placed his coffee cup back on the table. He was aware of Sowerby and Harding watching his every move as if he were a suspect who might suddenly make a break for it. Returning to his chair, he said: “And how will Rickards or anyone else explain the boat trip?”
It was still Harding who answered: “He doesn’t have to. They were lovers, for God’s sake. They fancied a sea trip. It was Amphlett’s boat after all. She left her car on the quay perfectly openly. She took nothing with her and neither did Amy. She left a note to Pascoe saying she’d be back in a couple of hours. In Rickards’s eyes and everyone else’s, that adds up to an unfortunate accident. And who is to say that it wasn’t? We were nowhere near close enough to have scared Amphlett into making a run for it; not yet.”
“And your people have found nothing at the house?”
Harding looked at Sowerby. It was a question they preferred not to answer, and one which should not have been asked. After a pause, Sowerby answered: “Clean. No radio, no documents, no evidence of trade craft. If Amphlett did intend to do a bunk, she cleaned up efficiently before she left.”
Bill Harding said: “OK, if she did panic and was getting out, the only mystery is, why so precipitous? If she killed Robarts and thought that the police were getting close, that might have tipped the balance. But they weren’t getting close. It could, of course, have been a genuine boat trip, and a genuine accident. Or their own side could have killed them both. Once the Larksoken plan was obsolete, they were expendable. What were the comrades going to do with them, for God’s sake? Fit them out with new personalities, new papers, infiltrate them into a power station in Germany? They were hardly worth the trouble, I should have thought.”
Dalgliesh said: “Is there any evidence that it was an accident? Has any ship reported bow damage in the fog, a possible collision?”
Sowerby said: “None so far. I doubt whether there will be. But if Amphlett really was part of the organization we suspect recruited her, they’d have no compunction in providing a couple of involuntary martyrs for the cause. What sort of people did she think she was dealing with? The fog would have helped them, but they could have run down that boat without the fog. Or, for that matter, taken them off and killed them elsewhere. But to fake an accident was the sensible course, particularly given the bonus of the fog. I’d have done it that way myself.” And he would, thought Dalgliesh. He would have done it without compunction.
Harding turned to Mair. He said: “You never had the least suspicion of her?”
“You asked me that before. None. I was surprised—a little irritated even—that she preferred not to stay as my PA when I got the new job, and even more surprised at the reason. Jonathan Reeves was hardly the man I thought she’d have chosen.”
Sowerby said: “But it was clever. An ineffectual man, one she could dominate. Not too intelligent. Already in love with her. She could have chucked him whenever she chose, and he wouldn’t have the wit to know why. And why should you suspect? Sexual attraction is irrational anyway.”
There was a pause, then he added: “Did you ever see her, the other girl, Amy? I’m told that she did visit the power station on one of those open days, but I don’t suppose you’d remember her.”
Mair’s face was like a white mask. He said: “I did see her once, I think. Blond dyed hair, a chubby, rather pretty face. She was carrying the child. What will happen to him, incidentally? Or is it a she?”
Sowerby said: “Taken into care, I suppose, unless they can trace the father or the grandparents. He’ll probably end up fostered or adopted. I wonder what the hell his mot
her thought she was doing.”
Harding spoke with sudden vehemence: “Do they think? Ever? No faith, no stability, no family affection, no loyalty. They’re blown like paper with every wind. Then, when they do find something to believe in, something to give them the illusion that they’re important, what do they choose? Violence, anarchy, hatred, murder.”
Sowerby looked at him, surprised and a little amused. Then he said: “Ideas some of them think worth dying for. In that, of course, lies the problem.”
“Only because they want to die. If you can’t cope with living, look for an excuse, a cause you can kid yourself is worth dying for, and indulge your death-wish. With luck you can take a dozen or so poor sods with you, people who can cope with living, who don’t want to die. And there’s always the ultimate self-deception, the final arrogance. Martyrdom. Lonely and inadequate fools all over the world will clench their fists and shout your name and carry placards with your picture and start looking round themselves for someone to bomb and shoot and maim. And that girl, Amphlett. She hadn’t even the excuse of poverty. Dad a senior army officer, security, a good education, privilege, money. She’d had it all.”
It was Sowerby who replied. He said: “We know what she had. What we can’t know is what she didn’t have.”
Harding ignored him. “And what did they expect to do with Larksoken if they did take it over? They wouldn’t have lasted for more than half an hour. They’d have needed experts, programmers.”
Mair said: “I think you can take it they knew what and who they’d need and had planned how they could get them.”
“Into the country? How?”
“By boat, perhaps.”
Sowerby looked at him and then said a little impatiently: “They didn’t do it. They couldn’t have done it. And it’s our job to see that they never can do it.”
There was a moment’s silence; then Mair said: “I suppose Amphlett was the dominant partner. I wonder what arguments or what inducements she used. The girl—Amy—struck me as an instinctive creature, not likely to die for a political theory. But that is obviously a superficial judgement. I only saw her once.”
Sowerby said: “Without knowing them, we can’t be sure who was the dominant partner. But I’d say it was almost certainly Amphlett. Nothing is known or suspected about Camm. She was probably recruited as a runner. Amphlett must have had a contact in the organization, must have met him occasionally, if only to receive instructions. But they’d be careful never to get in touch directly. Camm probably received the coded messages setting out time and place for the next meeting and passed them on. As for her reasons, she found life unsatisfactory, no doubt.”
Bill Harding lunged over to the table and poured himself a large whisky. His voice was thick, as if he were drunk. “Life has always been unsatisfactory for most people for most of the time. The world isn’t designed for our satisfaction. That’s no reason for trying to pull it down about our ears.”
Sowerby smiled his sly, superior smile. He said easily: “Perhaps they thought that’s what we’re doing.”
Fifteen minutes later Dalgliesh left with Mair. As they stood unlocking their cars, he looked back and saw that the janitor was still waiting at the open door. Mair said: “Making sure that we actually leave the premises. What extraordinary people they are! I wonder how they got on to Caroline. There seemed no point in asking, as they made it obvious that they had no intention of saying.”
“No, they wouldn’t say. Almost certainly they got a tip-off from the security services in Germany.”
“And this house. How on earth do they find these places? D’you suppose that they own it, borrow it, rent it or just break into it?”
Dalgliesh said: “It probably belongs to one of their own officers—retired, I imagine. He, or she, lets them have a spare key for such an occasional use.”
“And now they’ll be packing up, I suppose. Dusting down the furniture, checking for fingerprints, finishing up the food, turning off the power. And in an hour no one will know that they were ever there. The perfect temporary tenants. They’ve got one thing wrong, though. There wasn’t a physical relationship between Amy and Caroline. That’s nonsense.”
He spoke with such extraordinary strength and conviction, almost with outrage, that Dalgliesh wondered for a moment whether Caroline Amphlett had been more than his PA. Mair must surely have sensed what his companion was thinking, but he neither explained nor denied. Dalgliesh said: “I haven’t congratulated you yet on your new job.”
Mair had slipped into his seat and turned on the engine. But the car door was still open, and the silent warder at the door still waited patiently.
He said: “Thank you. These tragedies at Larksoken have taken away some of the immediate satisfaction, but it’s still the most important job I’m ever likely to hold.”
Then, as Dalgliesh turned away, he said: “So you think we still have a killer alive on the headland.”
“Don’t you?”
But Mair didn’t reply. Instead he asked: “If you were Rickards, what would you do now?”
“I’d concentrate on trying to find out whether Blaney or Theresa left Scudder’s Cottage that Sunday night. If either of them did, then I think my case would be complete. It isn’t one that I’d be able to prove, but it would stand up in logic and I think that it would be the truth.”
8
Dalgliesh drove first out of the drive but Mair, accelerating sharply, overtook him on the first stretch of straight road and remained ahead. The thought of following the Jaguar all the way back to Larksoken was, for some reason, intolerable. But there was no danger of it: Dalgliesh even drove like a policeman, inside, if only just inside, the speed limit. And by the time they reached the main road, Mair could no longer see the lights of the Jaguar in his mirror. He drove almost automatically, eyes fixed ahead, hardly aware of the black shapes of the tossing trees as they rushed past like an accelerated film, of the cat’s eyes unfolding in an unbroken stream of light. He was expecting a clear road on the headland and, cresting a low ridge, saw almost too late the lights of an ambulance. Violently twisting the wheel, he bumped off the road and braked on the grass verge, then sat there listening to the silence. It seemed to him that emotions which for the last three hours he had rigorously suppressed were buffeting him as the wind buffeted the car. He had to discipline his thoughts, to arrange and make sense of these astonishing feelings which horrified him by their violence and irrationality. Was it possible that he could feel relief at her death, at a danger averted, a possible embarrassment prevented, and yet at the same time be torn as if his sinews were being wrenched apart by a pain and regret so overwhelming that it could only be grief? He had to control himself from beating his head against the wheel of the car. She had been so uninhibited, so gallant, so entertaining. And she had kept faith with him. He hadn’t been in touch with her since their last meeting on the Sunday afternoon of the murder, and she had made no attempt to contact him by letter or telephone. They had agreed that the affair must end and that each would keep silent. She had kept her part of the bargain, as he had known she would. And now she was dead. He spoke her name aloud, Amy, Amy, Amy. Suddenly he gave a gasp which tore at the muscles of his chest as if he were in the first throes of a heart attack and felt the blessed releasing tears flow down his face. He hadn’t cried since he was a boy and even now, as the tears ran like rain and he tasted their surprising saltiness on his lips, he told himself that these minutes of emotion were good and therapeutic. He owed them to her and, once they were over, the tribute of grief paid, he would be able to put her out of his mind as he had planned to put her out of his heart. It was only thirty minutes later, when switching on the engine, that he gave thought to the ambulance and wondered which of the few inhabitants of the headland was being rushed to hospital.
9
As the two ambulance men wheeled the stretcher down the garden path, the wind tore at the corner of the red blanket and billowed it into an arc. The straps held it down, but
Blaney almost flung himself across Theresa’s body, as if desperately shielding her from something more threatening than the wind. He shuffled crab-like down the path beside her, half-bent, his hand holding hers under the blanket. It felt hot and moist and very small, and it seemed to him that he was aware of every delicate bone. He wanted to whisper reassurance but terror had dried his throat and when he tried to speak his jaw jabbered as if palsied. And he had no comfort to give. There was a too-recent memory of another ambulance, another stretcher, another journey. He hardly dared look at Theresa in case he saw on her face what he had seen on her mother’s: that look of pale, remote acceptance which meant that she was already moving away from him, from all the mundane affairs of life, even from his love, into a shadow land where he could neither follow nor was welcome. He tried to find reassurance in the memory of Dr. Entwhistle’s robust voice.
“She’ll be all right. It’s appendicitis. We’ll get her to hospital straight away. They’ll operate tonight and with luck she’ll be back with you in a few days. Not to do the housework, mind; we’ll discuss all that later. Now, let’s get to the telephone. And stop panicking, man. People don’t die of appendicitis.”
But they did die. They died under the anaesthetic, they died because peritonitis intervened, they died because the surgeon made a mistake. He had read of these cases. He was without hope.
As the stretcher was gently lifted and slid with easy expertise into the ambulance, he turned and looked back at Scudder’s Cottage. He hated it now, hated what it had done to him, what it had made him do. Like him, it was accursed. Mrs. Jago was standing at the door holding Anthony in her unpractised arms with a twin standing silently on each side. He had telephoned the Local Hero for help, and George Jago had driven her over immediately to stay with the children until he returned. There had been no one else to ask. He had telephoned Alice Mair at Martyr’s Cottage, but all he had got was the answerphone. Mrs. Jago lifted Anthony’s hand and waved it in a gesture of goodbye, then bent to speak to the twins. Obediently they too waved. He climbed into the ambulance and the doors were firmly shut.